[I know as a writer that there is a fine line between honest speaking and melodrama and that the following can probably be read in either way--but the truth is, I think that sometimes we do the world a disservice in not speaking honestly, that there is something not quite healthy about our societal pressure to say "I'm fine, how are you" whenever we are ritually asked, "How are you today?" Sometimes we aren't fine and that is okay.]

While Cincinnati has been life changing for us in terms of finding out the information we needed to know, proactive in Michael’s care as a complete and complicated individual–to Michael, it is the worst place on earth and we’re heading back there tomorrow. Last night we were talking about it and getting ready for his shot and he said he wasn’t sure any more that he wanted to have the surgery, that maybe his back wasn’t that bad. I had to explain to him that the surgery really wasn’t a choice because if we do nothing, he will, at the very least, end up completely bent over. It was a difficult conversation and, I think, one of many to come over the next two months as we kick into gear getting ready for July 23rd. This week’s appointments have driven it home that it’s moving into “game time” and we’re all feeling the stress. My stomach is a constant ball of knots and sleep is starting, again, to come only at the point of exhaustion with music or a book playing loudly through my iPod so I can’t hear my heart and my brain saying over and over like I was three “I don’t want to do this, I don’t want to do this, I DON’T want to do this.” 

I am thankful that we have this option, that we have people willing to do this surgery, but I don’t want to do this. It is terrifying, all the possibilities and the “what ifs” and the doctors “concerns” and I am glad they are thinking over every avenue and I am glad they are covering every base but every time I hear “there are concerns” or “this doctor has concerns” or “he is a complicated case and there are concerns” my stomach gets tighter and I wonder how I will breathe through 8-10 hours of surgery.

So, that’s the unsugarcoated (most definitely not a word) truth. We don’t want to do this, we are tired and scared and time has shrunk again and two months sounds incredibly close. 

When Michael was a baby I played the role of superwoman very well, I had it all together, I was strong, doctor’s were impressed, etc. ad nauseum. The truth is, I’m older and I’m wiser and while my first instinct is still to play the superwoman and say “oh, everything is fine, we’re holding together, one day at a time, it will all work out, let’s go plant a tree, and how is your day???”–life is messy. It is glorious and amazing–but it is messy, and that is okay. So, tomorrow I may actually be superwoman for a day or even two or six, but maybe not–regardless, today, I’m not, today I’m a tired and scared mom who only wants one thing, what we all want for our children, that they be happy and healthy and I am sad that the road to not even healthy but  ”maybe more healthy” for my son is one that includes this painful experience.